


even when i doubt you (i'm no good without you)

by GalaxyGhosty



Series: The Monster's Darling [20]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Worship, M/M, Past Torture, Scars, Undercover Missions, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:58:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalaxyGhosty/pseuds/GalaxyGhosty
Summary: AU. There’s not a single part of him that doesn’t love Dark, and there’s not a single part of him that doesn’t belong wholly to the monster--theman--on the other side of the gun.





	even when i doubt you (i'm no good without you)

**Author's Note:**

> To explain the journey this has been would be difficult, to say the least. I'm not sure I could.
> 
> This has been in my documents for months, and it's been a constant battle of knowing what I wanted to write and getting it onto paper. It's been immeasurably difficult to get my fingers and my brain to cooperate for long enough to write a paragraph, let alone the whole fic that lies before you. But at some point, I just...found the inspiration. It struck me again, and over the course of about two weeks, I plowed through this in the midst of college and work and everything else that's been eating at me. 
> 
> I have been so reluctant to finish this piece for fear of saying goodbye. I love these characters so desperately, so fervently, that the mere thought of never writing them again filled me with such pain. But I know that even with this finale, this "epilogue"--their story isn't over, and they will always be alive in some way, in some manner of speaking. I will always remember them fondly, and they will live on in each and every one of you, who have read this story and stood by me during this arduous process. I thank you so heavily from the bottom of my heart in a way I will never truly be able to express. Thank you so much for being here. For reading this, for helping them grow into something far beyond what I could've ever comprehended when I posted this sad, ephemeral piece in 2016. 
> 
> That said, I think I've rambled enough for now. I hope that this makes up for the wait. ♡♡♡♡
> 
> Title from "Doubt" by twenty one pilots

| _"Shaking hands with the dark parts of my thoughts, no. **You are all that I've got** , no..."_ |

~~

Jack presses the pads of his fingers together, an uncomfortable anxiousness just beneath the surface, and he hates that no matter how many times he does this, he’s scared. 

Not that there’s anything to be scared of. Jack’s faced things far worse than strange men with strange intentions--he’s faced crazed assassins and cannibalistic killers, human traffickers and rapists, all of which is just the norm for him. 

He combs his fingers through his hair--a fine mop of brown, now, having dyed it back. He’s sure that his hair appreciates it after the years of rigorous hair coloring, over and over. It’s a lot softer than it used to be, a lot floofier on the top, and if anything in this world is certain, it’s that Dark definitely likes it. 

The room reverberates at a frequency unknown to him, yet somehow in a language he understands. Music blaring, the club feels familiar, akin to the place his whole life changed for better, or for worse. He hasn’t quite decided yet. His hoodie bunches around his elbows, shoved up, his jeans ripped, and Jack finds it amusing that every time he comes to a club, it’s to do something illegal. 

Jack waits with unsteady hands for a man, for a man with a rugged face to walk towards him. He’ll have brown hair, a crooked nose, a sleeve tattoo. He’ll look like someone Jack would do everything in his power to avoid. But tonight, Jack’s face will be the last that this man sees, before Dark puts a bullet in him, or two, or three. 

Before long, said man, James Walker, up and coming drug dealer, meets his eyes in the crowd. Jack puts on his most flirtatious smile, wracking up every ounce of innocence he can put into his eyes. He shifts his body language, more doe-like, gentle, like he’s nervous, but curious. It doesn’t take long for him to be interested. Men in this field are so easily swayed by those who act subservient. 

He’s appearing by his side moments later, a soft, spider grin beckoning Jack to ruin. Jack wonders what he would do, if Jack were serious about seeing him. He’d probably tie him down, fuck him raw until Jack screamed, or perhaps he’d gag him. He looks the sort, he looks the kind to try and reduce him to nothing but a fuck hole, something to get his dick wet in, and Jack’s so glad that out of everything, that will never be a thing he has to do. 

“Don’t think I’ve seen your kind around here,” Walker murmurs, his breath reeking of cigar smoke, something that he’s used to, but it’s not the familiar, not like Dark. 

“Not my scene,” Jack shifts his eyes away, looking down, pasting on a fake, tentative smile. “I, uh. Wanted to try and get out. Maybe get a taste for living.”

And it’s interesting how easy he falls for that. A man like Walker should be cautious, wary of the slightest indication of ill intention, but he’s so enraptured by Jack’s easy energy. He wonders if it’s a gift, to wind powerful men around his finger. 

“Came to a good place,” Walker siddles up close to him, crowding his space, ready to devour him, almost. He’s predatory in a way that Dark isn’t, or maybe it’s just that Jack is used to Dark and his meaningful threats. “Call me Jay. You?”

Lying is so natural to him, now. But he’s found the easiest lies are the ones dipped in truth. “Sean.”

“Sean,” Walker says, like it’s a gift, rolling off his tongue in a way that’s not articulate at all. Jack pretends to be mesmerized by it. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“If you’d like,” Jack bats his lashes at him, amping up the flirtation just a bit more. “Surprise me?” 

Four minutes later, Jack feels a tingling in his fingers again, the same anxiousness bubbling just beneath his skin. He’s drank a little of the beer that Walker ordered for him, the bottle cold, sweating, and Walker rattles on about something or another. He pretends to be interested, pretending to be charmed by his sloppy words and bad attitude. Jack’s got a thing for bad boys, apparently, but this one isn’t anywhere close to his standards. 

“You got a girlfriend, kid?” Walker asks, his cigar breath now mixed with beer. Still not comforting like it should be. “Boyfriend?”

“Neither,” Jack replies airily, skirting over the _kid_ comment. He’s far past being a kid, definitely a young man, at this point. He sets his beer down, stepping into what little space remains between the two of them. He trails his nails along the outlines of his tattoo, and he feels Walker’s eyes on him, hungry and dark. “I’ve, uh...never. With a guy.”

If only he knew. Beneath his floppy hoodie, beneath the dips of his jeans, so many marks litter his skin, signs of ownership, belonging to something else, _someone_ else. Below the dip of his collar, along his checks, he’s got hickeys and bruises for days, weeks, all symbols of possession. But Walker needn’t know any of that. 

Besides, boneheads like him are enamored with taking the virginity of people like him, fragile and soft. It’s always an easy way to get someone to follow him. 

“Yeah?” Walker asks, and places a casual hand at Jack’s waist. It’s a soft gesture, but prominent--eager to take him away from prying eyes, and other interest. He’ll let him. “You interested in trying?” 

Jack glances away, playing aloof. He makes no move to rid himself of the hand at his hip, but appears thoughtful. “Oh, I...I don’t know…”

Walker’s hot breath ghosts over the shell of his ear as he leans in. “Come on, babe. It’ll be fun. Make you feel real nice.” 

Jack shivers, and it’s not...a great feeling. But he fakes a smile away, saccharine as it can be. “If...you insist.” 

And with that, the beers are gone, dropped off at the counter. Walker pulls him through the crowd of people, and Jack already knows the steps to find the dirty rooms where people go to “have intimate time together.” It seems he’s not the first catch on Walker’s list, but he’ll certainly be the last. 

He sees the vague flicker of a shadow as he’s pushed into the room, and Jack begins the count in his head, knowing that soon, this will all be over. 

There’s nothing nice about the way that Walker kisses him, a harsh mash of mouths and spit. It’s nothing like the way Dark kisses him, with so much finesse, with intent to own, but intent to adore, worship, almost. No, Walker kisses like a goddamn sleaze, and Jack pretends to like it, pretends to be into it, awkward and unsure. 

Around him, the room smells of cheap booze and fragrant perfume, of cigarette smoke and littered with any number of diseases. Walker shoves him onto the bed, pushing up his hoodie, nails digging into his stomach like they belong there, like Jack’s whole being, body, mind, and soul, don’t belong to another already. Jack lets him, bracing his hands against his shoulders, timid and shy as the poor excuse for a criminal invades his mouth, tongue warm and slimy. 

He emits a wildly exaggerated moan, hopefully to overshadow the fear and panic that takes control when the button of his jeans pops, rough hands forcing their way inside. He’s not even the _least_ bit hard, the kissing mediocre at best. But he spreads his legs anyway, accommodating the berth of Walker’s hips. 

It doesn’t last. Walker’s hands are just dipping into territory they don’t belong in when a gunshot rings out behind him, clear, but soft. The man in question immediately stills, as though frozen in place. 

Then, quietly, “Off.” 

Walker makes no move to get off. Jack can feel his own heart racing, so loud that he’s surprised that it isn’t audible in the room. 

Dark cocks his gun. “I won’t ask again.” 

“Thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend,” Walker’s eyes slide down to him, and Jack averts his gaze. The intensity of the stare burns him nonetheless. Then, to Dark, “We’re a little busy, pal.”

“I’m not your pal,” Dark says coolly, not a single tremor in his voice. He sounds angry, furious even, bubbling just beneath the surface. “And if you value your life, you will do as I ask.” 

Walker smirks, like he’s going to walk out of this on top. Jack almost finds it charming--perhaps more so, if he weren’t in range of being strangled. “Listen, man, you don’t want to mess with me.”

Dark fires off another shot, embedding itself into the wall. To Walker’s credit, he doesn’t jolt. “No, _you_ don’t want to mess with _me_. What you’ve put your filthy hands is _mine_ , and if you remove yourself from him, I’ll do you the pleasant courtesy of making your death only a little bit painful.” 

“Don’t see your name on him,” Walker mumbles, and Jack winces, because even though Dark’s name isn’t prevalent, as though every bruise and bite mark isn’t testament, it’s there, in every part of him, in every way since they’ve first met. There’s not a single cell within him that hasn’t been touched by Dark, not a single inch of his skin that hasn’t shivered under Dark’s lips. There’s not a single part of him that doesn’t love Dark, and there’s not a single part of him that doesn’t belong wholly to the monster--the _man_ \--on the other side of the gun. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

Another shot. Close enough for it to spook him, this round. Jack wishes that Dark wouldn’t play his intimidation card with him so close, but he knows that no matter what, his monster will protect him. 

“You’re beginning to irritate me,” Dark drawls out. “Off, you vermin. I think your hands will go nicely with the others who touched things that didn’t belong to them.” 

“You think you’re tough?” Walker asks, and his eyes slide down to Jack again. Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, he hauls him off the bed, not far behind him. He wraps an arm around Jack’s throat, pressing against his windpipe, finally facing Dark. He looks like a storm, brooding and demonic in the darkness. “What’s a cheap boy worth to ya?”

“More than your entire, petty existence,” Dark hisses, and he locks eyes with Jack for a moment. There’s a soft, unspoken agreement, and Jack finds confidence buried deep within him, a seed waiting to sprout. 

Walker isn’t expecting him to fight back. Jack swings his elbow around, digging it into the soft skin across his ribcage. It’s just enough to make the man recoil, and Jack bites down on his arm, and that gives him enough leverage for release. Walker swears up a storm as Jack stumbles forward and out of arm’s reach from him, rubbing at his sore throat. “Fuck.” 

With Jack out of the way, Dark takes no time in firing off the rest of the rounds in the gun. He hears them hit, sinking into flesh, and when he looks up, none of them are lethal shots. When the clip’s empty, Dark tosses the gun to the side, advancing on the man, rolling up his sleeves with every heavy step.

The first hit connects with Walker’s face, and Jack’s lukewarmly satisfied with the hit. Grabbing a fistful of his shirt, Dark hauls him onto the ground, the sap falling face forward. Placing a leg between his shoulder blades, Dark pulls his arm back and snaps, and Jack swears he can hear the bones fighting it every step of the way.

Walker _wails_. “Fuck! Fuck! Who the _fuck_ are you?” 

“Someone with more power than you,” Dark spits. “Someone far above you. Someone you should _obey_. For you? I’m _God_.” 

The man’s non-broken arm flails a bit, but Dark makes quick work of that one too. Jack flinches when it snaps as well, just as easily. It frightens him, almost, how strong Dark can be. How ruthless. 

“Some call me the Monster,” Dark leans down to whisper. With his now useless arms, Dark fists his fingers in the back of his brown hair, pulling his face up, only to slam it back down. He repeats this two or three more times, finding a pool of blood on the ground. 

“Oh, fuck,” his voice comes out nasally, and for a brief second, Jack meets his eyes. “You--you’re--” 

Jack sits in front of him. “You were dead when you saw me.” 

“I’ll kill you, bitch,” Walker sneers out, as clear as he can manage. “You fuckin’ snake--”

Dark twists his fingers in his hair, yanking his head backwards. “I think you’ve touched him plenty. Now shut up and take your punishment quietly, otherwise I’ll take that useless tongue from your mouth.” 

At this, Jack turns his head away, allowing Dark to continue with his work. No matter how many times he sits here for this, it never becomes any easier. He never finds the sound of broken bones and ripping skin any easier to swallow, to digest. He never really gets comfortable with the way that Dark’s hands can do so much wrong, wrought so much destruction, and yet be so gentle when they come near him. It’s moments like these that he remembers, with a sobering clarity, that the love of his life is absolutely a monster. 

“Darling?” and it feels like forever when Dark’s voice finds him again. “Are you ready to go?”

He’s been ready since he stepped into the place. Jack offers him a tired, forgiving smile, nodding his head. Dark’s hands, still stained in a thin layer of blood, reach down to pull him up to his feet. Jules’ cleanup will swipe in soon, and neither of them will be there for it. 

The trip back to the car is a blur, Dark cleaning his hands with the wipes Jack had insisted he keeps there, because he doesn’t like it when Dark touches him with gross, bloody hands. 

“We going home?” Jack asks, resting his head back against the headrest. The exhaustion settles into him suddenly, fiercely. All he wants right now is to curl up into bed, the soft lull of a television show he doesn’t care about in his ears, face pressed into Dark’s chest. 

“Not yet,” Dark murmurs, sliding the car out of its spot with ease. “We’re going somewhere, first.”

“I’m tired,” Jack pouts, like that’s going to get him anywhere. He feels Dark’s smirk in the darkness, condescending and fond wrapped into a single gesture. “Where do you want to go?”

“It’s a surprise,” Dark drawls out. “Hush.”

Knowing he’s not going to win, no matter what he does, Jack closes his eyes, letting the whir of the car engine lull him into a comatose state. With Dark, he never knows if he’ll be driving for ten minutes or three hours. 

When he opens his eyes again, cutting the headlights, the car purring to a stop. “You awake?” 

“Mm,” Jack hums, glancing out the window. “Where are we?”

“Get out of the car,” Dark grouses, opening the driver’s door. Jack makes no effort to move. “I’ll carry you out, you know.”

Rolling his eyes, he opens the door, and steps out onto soft earth. Jack glances around, finding a large, open field, the sky dark, but bright with tiny flecks of light.

Stars. He lets out a low sigh. 

“Come on,” Dark’s hand grasps at his wrist, pulling him through the grass. He follows him through, casting his eyes up every so often to spectate the stars. It’s been so long since he actually had a chance to see them, vividly. Living in the city hasn’t offered him many bright sights such as this. 

After walking for a while, silence following every step, Dark halts. He turns on Jack, and with no prompting, shoves him _hard_ , and he gasps. But before he hits the ground, Dark catches him by the shoulders, by the wrist, almost in a dip, before kneeling down, easing him onto the ground. 

“You could’ve just asked me to lay down,” Jack huffs.

Dark smiles that saccharine grin. “It’s more fun to listen to those noises you make.”

Resting down next to him, Jack gazes upon the stars. It feels like a nebula, a personal orchestra of beauty, wrapped into a painting only he can see. He’s never seen the stars this clearly, never seen them this close and personal--he feels that if he reached out, he could touch one, take one from its home, keep it close to his chest until the day he dies. 

“Shit,” Jack whispers. “Shit.”

“I thought you might like it,” Dark says. “Something about...peace. After a long night.”

“You’ve never done this before.”

“I know,” Dark replies, a tad uncertain. It’s unusual to hear anything borderline, egotistical confidence from him. “I just considered that perhaps, after tonight, you may need something a little sobering.”

Jack smiles. “You can just say you were jealous. Wanted me to yourself.” 

A scoff. “How many times will you claim such ridiculous lies?”

Dark doesn’t move to hold his hand, hug him, touch him, but his presence is enough. Jack feels warm with the weight of it, warm with the implication of it. He feels sentimental, somehow, like anything about tonight is anything worth being emotional about. 

“Perhaps I’ve grown soft in my old age,” Dark admits after a while, a soft, wistfulness to his tone. He can’t tell if he’s serious. He doesn’t sound sad, though, nor frightened. Just considerate. But all the bite comes back, moments later. “Don’t say a word.”

Propping himself up on his elbows, Jack rolls onto his side, turning to lean over the love of his life. Perhaps his only life, or the continuation of many, the beginning of some yet to come. It’s hard to say. He smiles, ignoring the cautious, watchful gaze of Dark as he presses a soft, kiss to his lips. 

“You’re not old,” Jack says, shaking his head. “You’re just looking more like a dad I wanna fuck, now.”

Dark actually rolls his eyes at that, reaching a hand up to grab him by the hair, pulling him down for another, sloppy kiss. He’s gotten so much more liberal with his kisses these days, and Jack’s more than happy to oblige the newfound quirk. 

“Brat,” Dark murmurs, almost like a compliment, and Jack thinks that in some ways, it definitely is. 

He releases him moments later, and before Jack can resume looking at the sky, Dark’s sitting up, tugging him into his lap. It’s an awkward mess of limbs for a moment, but Jack’s used to this position between them. Once he’s settled, Dark kisses the hollow of his throat, sliding his hands down his back, gripping his ass tight. 

“Can’t wait to get you home,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating against his skin. Jack pulls back slightly to meet his eyes. Dark’s got that familiar smirk on his lips, just curled at the corners, his fingers swirling in circles around his hips. “Can’t wait to open you up, writhing on my fingers. Can’t wait to hear you scream my name, only mine.”

“Mm,” Jack twirls a finger into Dark’s hair. “That so?”

His partner hums, the hunger in his tone still prevalent as he rumbles out, “Couldn’t stand him touching you. Putting his mouth where it didn’t belong. This…”

Dark presses a hot kiss to his neck, teeth grazing along the skin. He noses at the column of his throat, almost as though he were breathing him in, dragging his lips across his jawline. “This is mine.” 

“Yeah?” Jack’s voice isn’t as steady as he hopes it would be. After all this time, after all these years, Dark does something to him that no one else can ever do. His voice is a private concert, a string of melodies and discordant sounds that blend just right against the shell of his ear--so unique and calm that no other will be able to replicate, and he doesn’t want them to. 

His breath is warm against him, the recurring threat that Dark could sink his teeth into him, could rip out his throat, could murder him right here, right now, but he won’t. Never a day has gone by that Jack doesn’t remember that, and yet, and yet--he remains in his position, unafraid and unashamedly turned on. 

“Always,” Dark says, possessive and certain. His fingers dig into his hips, anchoring him there, keeping him secure, reminding him that no one will ever hurt him with Dark here. It comforts him, to be protected in such a way. “You are, and have always been mine, darling.” 

And he’s watched Dark do unspeakable things. He’s watched him murder a man with his bare hands, he’s watched him empty a clip into a corpse. He’s watched him rip out teeth, break bones, bloody noses. He’s listened to Dark lie, on so many accounts, but he knows with a frightening clarity that Dark means this, and will always mean this. 

“I love you,” Jack tells him, feeling the way that Dark’s grip tightens, just a bit. He presses his face into the crook of Jack’s shoulder, saying nothing, but it’s not an uncomfortable silence. 

They sit like that for a while, but before long, Dark’s ushering him out of his lap, indicating with soft murmurs that it’s time to go. The walk back to the car is a blur, and so is the ride back, a muted color of rustling grass and revving engines. 

Home is nothing new, nothing glamorous or drab--but it feels like something that Jack looks forward to, day in and day out. He loves the few days of monotony that he gets to have, to smoothe over the burn and sting of acting in this life. When he’d been sixteen, he’d never imagined being like this, he’d never imagine that all of that childhood anger, that bitterness, would’ve ever led him here. He never imagined that those few, fleeting years with his uncle would ever have led him to Dark, somehow, someway. 

At sixteen, he never imagined that he’d grow up to be an undercover agent for the organization, and be hopelessly in love with the crime lord himself. 

As they get inside, Dark presses him against the door, his touch surprisingly gentle. His lips ghost over his cheeks, his jaw, lingering on his lips. He smells of grass and earth and stardust, and Jack breathes him all in, everything that he can, because he belongs to Dark--an undisputed fact since he was nineteen--but Dark is his, too. 

When they get to bed, the clothes come off--a tangled mess of suits and ties and jeans that fit too tightly, mostly on Jack’s end. Dark slides every article of cloth from him with ease, the calluses of his fingers soothing to his body. With his shirt still half unbuttoned, the tie missing, Dark presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to his stomach, his collarbone, giving kisses to the insides of his thighs, the bend of his knees. 

It’s been a long time since Dark’s been this gentle with him. Jack regards him with a curious stare. 

And then Dark’s hands, they move, mapping out his skin. It feels as though he’s recognizing, familiarizing himself with every pore, with every inch of hair. His breath hitches when Dark stalls on the scars, the faded ones across his ribs, knowing that there are worse ones on his back. Dark has never looked at them before. He’s never wanted to. 

“Beautiful,” Dark’s voice is low, a whisper. Words meant for him, only him. He leans forward, pressing kisses to the faded marks, and Jack shivers, squirming away. Dark holds him in place. “God created something so beautiful, so ethereal, something not meant for this world. And it’s mine. I’ll let _nothing_ take you from me.”

It’s nothing and everything all at once. Something bursts in his chest, hot and frightening. Dark’s always been a possessive ass, but something about this time shocks him. It’s more than staking a claim, more than reminding Jack who owns him. It’s like an assurance, one he never really anticipated or expected to hear. 

But these scars--they make him so ugly. Shameful. Jack can hardly look in the mirror anymore without being disgusted with his skin. Though they’ve worn away with time, they’re still ever present, and Jack will never forget where they came from and who put them there.

Dark’s finger brushes over his cheek, pulling him back to reality. His gaze burns into him, intense and sharp, and as much as he wants, he can’t look away. Jack swallows, unable to offer even the softest, tightest of smiles. 

“Beautiful is not the word I’d use,” Jack tells him, gentle and matter-of-fact. “Perhaps disgusting would be more appropriate.”

His partner’s lips quirk into a smile, sprinkled in mischief. He drags his nails over the outlines of the marks, brushing along the faded burns on his shoulders. His touch is so delicate, so unlike him still, and Jack can’t understand it. Dark tilts his chin up, pressing a soft kiss to his lips before pulling away. 

Then, without warning, he’s pulling off the rest of his shirt, and Jack never gets tired of seeing the curve of Dark’s muscles, the sharp angles and jut of his physique. He’s a gorgeous man, and time has been kind to him--if anything, he’s gotten even more amazing since Jack first met him. He never feels safer than when those strong arms wrap around him, pin him down as rough hips drive into him. But more than that, Dark’s body is a map, a wonderland of stories, of victories. Jack’s often spent time ghosting his touch over the marks, learning every detail, every whisper behind each sealed wound. Dark’s not only a survivor, but a winner, the victor of every single battle. 

Dark catches his gaze, and his eyes are hooded. In the dimness of the room, he runs his fingers over the pink blemishes on his collarbone. They look like badges, medals of honor, like he’s been awarded for some great accomplishment. “These were from being shot some years back. I was careless. Thought I was on top of the world, was riding the job high. Bastard got three rounds into me before Anti took care of him.” 

Jack tilts his head. Dark goes on. His fingers ghost along a long gash just below his navel, trailing downward. “Here, I was stabbed, nearly cut open, almost bled out. It was a ribbed knife. I was twenty-four, some time after I met you for the first time. Managed to get it stitched up, but it’s still not pretty.” 

Then, Dark holds out his left arm, gesturing to the fading, gnarled marks around the shoulder, twisting down towards his elbow. Jack can’t find them disturbing, though, can’t find them to anything other than amazing, somehow. It’s like a memento, an armband signifying that he has bested his adversaries. “Shrapnel. It was a messy operation. We took out the target that we needed to, but the place was rigged. I’m lucky I came out with my life, and this is all I had to show for it. My arm got caught beneath, managed to get out before the whole building collapsed.” 

He pauses, and Jack’s throat feels tight. He’s looked at these scars hundreds of times, and he’s heard these stories before. But something about this description hurts him. “Do these scars, Jack, make me disgusting to you?”

And there it is. “Of course not.” 

“And why is that?” he refuses to meet Dark’s gaze, but he isn’t having it. Reaching out, Dark grips him by the chin, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Tell me.” 

“How can they be disgusting?” Jack fires back. “Every one of your scars shows that you’re...alive. That you survived the worst possible thing, and came out of it okay. Every single one of those scars shows that you won, that you beat what tried to kill you.” 

“And how on earth,” Dark asks, voice low, almost harsh, but not quite, “are the scars on your body anything less than the marks of a survivor?”

Jack sets his jaw, pulling out of Dark’s grip. “It just...is.”

“Not good enough,” his partner decides, his gaze unwavering. “Try again.”

He scoffs. “It just--it just is, Dark. Yours are from battles you’ve fought. Your line of work. It’s going to happen. Mine--mine are because I was--” 

And he breaks it off, the word too cold, too large and frightening for his mouth. As though saying it will make it real, as though it hasn’t already happened. Sometimes he tries to forget, but it never goes away.

With a long suffering sigh, Dark withdraws, turning his back on him. But it’s not a cold gesture, not one out of exasperation or frustration. Jack looks along the expanse of his back, noting countless, thin gashes along every open space, sometimes overlapping, all looking sickly and gross. They don’t look like the rest. They’re faded like the others, but have a touch more timeliness to them. Like they happened within Jack’s window of knowing him. He’s noticed them before, of course, but somehow--somehow he’s never paid attention.

“I was twenty-seven when these were given to me,” Dark’s voice doesn’t bely anything. “A mission gone bad. I had no way of contacting anyone. I was on my own. I’m capable, and damn good at what I do, but I can be overpowered. And I was.”

Jack says nothing. Dark continues. “They strung me up and whipped me, over and over again. I lost count somewhere up in the hundreds, how many strikes. I was surprised I still had a back, that I still had any bit of skin left on me when I got out of it. I believed, Jack, that I was going to die there. But as you may have so intelligently guessed, I didn’t. They grew careless. Thought they had broken me. And that carelessness led to me slaughtering every last one of them when I got free.” 

He turns back to face him, expression hard and unforgiving. “These scars are symbols of my weakness. They were given to me because I was overpowered. Outmatched. These marks are what most would consider shameful. Every time I see these, I know I was too weak, too incompetent to prevent them.”

A beat. “Do you find these repulsive, Jack? Do you find these marks to be shameful, abhorrent to look at?” 

Jack, again, offers no response, his throat closed, caught in a vice grip. He feels the words there, stuck there, and tastes them on his tongue. He tastes every _no_ , he tastes every _it’s not your fault_ and every _i’m sorry_ , mixed with his saliva. An emotion he can’t name is trapped between his teeth, lodged between his windpipes, in the sinew of his cheeks, and nothing he can say is the right answer. He’s not sure there is one. 

“I did not win this battle,” Dark murmurs. “But I survived it. And these scars are stripes, recognition for the impossible I achieved.” 

He finally reaches out, running a hand along the soft skin of Jack’s thigh. It takes everything he has to not jerk away from him. “What Cry did to you,” he flinches at the name, “is unspeakable. When he sliced you open, when he made you bleed, when he forced his way in you--you held on. Even when you thought you couldn’t. You did not win that battle. But you survived it, darling.” 

The tear dripping down his chin is what sobers him back to reality, the realization that he’s crying. Dark’s words weigh on his shoulders, an immeasurable pressure that nearly suffocates him, stealing the wind from his lungs. But he understands them, their importance, and he swears that something inside of him breaks, or perhaps reseals itself. Jack opens his mouth to speak, but that same bitterness returns, the inability to articulate his thoughts. Nothing makes sense, the syllables wrong as he tumbles out, “Let me see them again.” 

And Dark allows this, shifting to offer him access. Jack reaches out with careful, shaking fingers, pressing his fingers into the faded indentations, knowing that this was perhaps the only time Dark had ever been scared, a testament to his humanity. He’d always believed Dark to be above such things, or below them, infallible and invincible. Dark has never been scared of anything for as long as he’s known him, and yet--

Leaning forward, Jack presses his forehead between Dark’s shoulder blades, sucking in a sobering breath. His skin is warm, solid, and alive, and Jack’s suddenly never been more grateful for anything in his life. 

“I love you,” Jack rasps out, his voice a mess of tears, hoarseness, and perhaps insecurity. He’s not certain. He realizes that this is what their lives are to be, a cacophony of gunshots and whip cracks and knives, dissonant screams and words, unlike anything else. Their lives will never be easy, the wrongs will never be sponged away, the scars will never really be gone. But it will be alright. Tomorrow will come, and they will survive. “I love you so much.”

Dark’s response is immediate, soft and low, filling him with an unparalleled warmth in his chest. “And I, you.”

**Author's Note:**

> It would be remiss of me to not mention that I'm not fully saying goodbye to the world. While this is the last part in the main story, I plan to do drabbles here and there to fill in certain bits of the story that were missing, or happened off screen. It'll probably be compiled under a single fic, so if you have any questions that you'd like to see, or wanted to see in the fic but never got to, please shoot me a message over at voidskelly.tumblr.com! Also feel free to just come over there to chat with me. I adore hearing from you all, and it brings me so much joy to interact with everyone.
> 
> Thank you so much. Every word of appreciation, encouragement, and cheer has brought tears to my eyes. You are all so good to me, and I'm so very fortunate. Thank you. ♡


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